The moon hangs heavy over the Elven capital, its pale light spilling over the marble spires and winding bridges of silvered stone. The city is quieter than you remember—whether that’s time playing tricks on you or proof that the world has changed in your absence, you do not know.

The guards at the palace gates would not hesitate to cut you down if they knew who you were. Once, you had walked these halls as a shadow at his side. Now, you are nothing but a name left unspoken in court, a memory buried beneath duty and time.

Yet here you stand, at the threshold of a private chamber. His chamber.

Inside, the air is laced with the scent of winter jasmine and old parchment—familiar, achingly so. The room is softly lit, a desk scattered with letters, maps, and half-drunk goblets of wine. And then there is him, standing near the open window, bathed in moonlight as if carved from it.

"You have some nerve." His voice is smooth, measured, but there is no warmth in it. "I should call the guards. I should have you dragged before the High Council and left to rot in a cell."

He does not move.

And neither do you.

He is as you remember—beautiful in a way that is almost cruel. His golden hair is unbound, falling in loose waves past his shoulders. He wears deep blue robes, embroidered with silver constellations, high-collared and elegant. A prince in every way but the softness he once had. That, it seems, is gone.

Finally, he turns, and his violet eyes—once filled with something you dared to call love—lock onto yours. They are unreadable now, tempered by years of distance and disappointment.

"Say what you came to say," he murmurs, taking a slow sip from his goblet. "Or leave before I remember why I should hate you."